Black Wings and Six Guns
by Lassroyale
Summary: Dean Winchester has had five guns in his life that meant something to him, tied to memories both good and bad. The sixth is the gun that will end his life.
1. Black Wings and Six Guns

**Title:** Black Wings and Six Guns  
**Author:** Lassroyale  
**Rating:** R  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including 4.20  
**Pairing: **Dean/Castiel

**Summary:** Dean Winchester has had five guns in his life that meant something to him, tied to memories both good and bad. The sixth is the gun that will end his life.

**A/N:** Thanks **downfall35** for the beta! This is sort of my response to episode 4.20, which is quite late considering all the good stuff that's out there. ;p I needed a week to get away from the initial knee-jerk and write something. I just wanted to see a Dean that basically said, "Screw you guys, I'm going home."

I'm still waiting for some pre-read feedback buuuut, I've been sitting on this and I get antsy. I might be editing it etc, but here it is for now.

***EDIT***** I received some private feedback about this fic that got me thinking about it and I am going to make some adjustments to it. Namely, I am going to be adjusting the bit where Dean and Castiel have sex because I wasn't too sure about it to begin with and I agree with the person who gave me their critique that that portion of it "cheapens" the overall story. It's about their connection, not sex. So I will be changing that part, for my own peace of mind. - Lass **

*******

People it seems are for the most part not explicitly materialistic. They are, however, on a whole rather nostalgic. They collect trinkets and keepsakes, scraps of material, bits of paper, and otherwise useless knickknacks that is junk to another but precious to them. They hold onto these objects in order to cling to parts of their past, keeping the memories tied to them while time works to undo the stitching of the mind.

Dean Winchester collected guns.

He never made the conscious decision to collect guns as mementos. It simply worked out that way. Of course, considering his lifestyle, it was ironically appropriate. Why should a hunter's life be marked by anything other than the tools for slaughter?

There were five guns that Dean considered to be tokens of his past. Each one marked a milestone of his life, each significant in their own way.

It was fitting that his sixth and last gun would be the instrument of his own death.

***** **

The gun store did not put much stock into aesthetics, but it served its purpose nevertheless: it sold stuff that helped you kill things. Period.

The bell over the door rang through the shop with a muted clap of the chimes, causing the storekeeper to glance up at the man who walked in. She glanced quickly away.

Rae knew the look the man wore. Eventually, every owner who ran a gun store had a customer who came through their door bearing _that_ look.

It was the look of a dead man.

At another time in her life, Rae might have tried to engage in some light conversation and find out what was eating at the poor bastard. Nowadays she let them be, minding her own business past a few surreptitious glances out of the corner of her eye. It was pointless to pry, she had found. Nothing ever swayed them.

Still…she always wondered.

The stranger wore a look of resignation mixed with rigid certainty, overlain with a bone-deep weariness. It curled into his neck and settled over him like a fine layer of dust, noticeable even from a distance.

There was also tautness in the set of his shoulders that suggested he was wound tight despite the exhaustion in his green eyes. It was like a cord had been stretched across his back, tightened and strained nearly to the point of breaking. The tension traveled the length of his spine and held his posture erect and alert.

His body hadn't quite figured out what the mind had decided, and what the mind had determined was that it wanted to die.

Rae cleared her throat, told the man about the specials that were going on that month, and turned her attention back to her magazine.

There was nothing that she could do and she didn't care to try. A paying customer was a paying customer, after all. There were kids to feed and bills to pay, and the world continued to turn.

That was just the sad, hard truth.

***** **

If Dean were the whimsical sort he might have expected that the process of buying the weapon of his own murder would be more of a surrealistic experience. It wasn't in the least.

As the hunter wandered the shop surrounded by the familiar scent of gun oil and metal, he found himself swept by the sharp reality of the moment. The hard, clean lines of the handguns and rifles on display stood out in bass relief from the rest of the room. Each one spoke to him. Each one assured him of its efficiency. Each one assured him that it would be the vessel of his demise.

He need only choose.

It could be said that the keen realism was surreal in itself, but it helped to ground Dean in the here and now. It helped to reinforce his decision:_ he was going to kill himself. _

He was going to buy a gun, put it his temple, and splatter his brain matter all over the walls. Granted, he might get stinking drunk first, but in the end the result would be the same.

He was _**DONE.**_. He had said as much to Sammy in the Impala.

Done. Fuck it.

His brother hadn't known how serious Dean was being in that moment which wasn't surprising. Lately Sam was always underestimating him or was disappointed in him or something. He was done with _that_ too.

He was done with trying to do the right thing. He was done trying to live for other people and their expectations. He was done trying to be the good guy when he still felt the red stain of Hell on his soul.

Mostly, he was done with being the guy that everybody left behind when they were able to move on and he wasn't.

_"I don't serve man and I certainly don't serve YOU."_

What Dean hated the most wasn't the anger or the bitterness that surged into the back of his throat and stole the breath from his lungs whenever he remembered Castiel's words. What Dean hated the most was the consuming _emptiness_ that followed closely on the heels of his rage and acerbity.

It was like a fog that rolled in, though this fog did not come in on a little cat's feet. It slunk in on the sinewy gait of a prowling panther. It blanketed every free corner inside him, worming its way into every imperfection and every doubt. It covered his hurt in a cold, numbing poultice. It stole his will and depleted his vibrancy. It settled deep into the hidden places of his heart. It hollowed him out and whittled bits and pieces from his core, until Dean was left with one thing: _nothing_.

Compared to the emptiness that now followed him day in and day out, death was preferable…and for once, Dean Winchester was going to choose the easy way out.  
He had no fight left in him.

Fuck it. It's not like anyone actually _cared_. Certainly not anybody he cared about…certainly not anybody that he loved.

Dean brushed his fingers across a Glock 19, 9mm. It was black, square and made from a dense polymer. It was distinct. It was also the first gun he ever had ever owned, given to him by his dad on his eleventh birthday. That gun had served him well during his early trials as a hunter and had even helped him take out a werewolf when he was fourteen.

He hefted the pistol with a practiced hand, gauging the weight against his palm as he remembered those early lessons on the hunt with his dad. After a moment, he replaced the gun and moved on.

His gaze wandered across a few of the bigger handguns that were locked in cases along the back wall. A feeling of grim satisfaction washed through him when he laid eyes on a .50 Desert Eagle.

The gun is a beast, overkill for shooting anything other than a Wendigo on steroids. Dean had iced a Shtriga with his – the same Shtriga that had nearly killed Sammy all those years ago. It had been unnecessary, yeah, but it had felt damn good to exact revenge on the life-sucking witch.

Dean liked the feel of revenge in a .50 caliber slug. He liked the recoil of a gun in his hand and he liked the smell of faint sulphur and metal in his nose. It appealed to his visceral sense more than words ever could.

*******

Despite her resolve to mind her own business, Rae found herself studying the stranger over the top of her magazine. He was intriguing in the way that broken things were intriguing, and the question of "how" lingered, clinging like strong cologne.

What had happened to this man to break him down so completely? His eyes were deeply haunted, though she suspected it was because of something more than the general toil of life. Had he simply been dealt a ghastly hand from the start?

Rae couldn't put her finger on it. It would do to give it much thought, anyway.

"You look like someone who appreciates a classic firearm," she stated when the stranger drifted by the counter. He stopped and fixed her with a polite look and his full lips curved into a smile that failed to reach his eyes. He leaned in and tapped his index finger against the glass top, pointing to an old German Luger P-08 pistol.

"Something like that? Yeah, it's okay for a Nazi weapon," he replied with a faint burr of humor.

Rae favored him with a small smile, her light eyes appreciative of his knowledge. She swept a strand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear and shook her head.

"Nope, you look like the type who appreciates something homegrown." She rummaged beneath the counter for a moment before pulling out a long, wooden box which she placed on the glass top.

"Take a look, she's a beauty. An authentic Colt Patterson five shot revolver. Classic."

At that moment her cell phone began to ring and the chorus of "Hotel California" echoed through the store. Rae turned to answer the call and missed seeing the color drain completely from the man's face.

***** **

Dean knew that the shopkeeper was simply trying to be nice and he appreciated that she didn't treat try and treat him like some damned charity case. Still, falsely grinning and making light conversation was proving more painful than he had thought it would be.

If Dean was anything, however, it was a good actor. He easily managed to land on a subject that he could shoot the shit about until the cows had long come home.

At least he had managed until she had pulled out the Colt.

It wasn't _the_ Colt, he knew that, but seeing it brought the memories flooding back nevertheless.

This was the gun that marked the end of the Yellow Eyed Demon. This was the gun that marked the beginning of what he would later learn was the prelude to the fall of mankind. He shut his eyes against the memories and truth.

Fucking Armageddon. Fucking demons, fucking angels, fucking prophecy and…fucking _Castiel_.

There wasn't even any satisfaction tied with the memory of ganking Yellow Eyes, anymore. All the memory held was the bitter knowledge of his failure. All it held was the knowledge that he didn't save himself from his deal. All it held was the knowledge that he couldn't save Sammy. If he couldn't do that he certainly couldn't do what the angels had asked of him and save the world.

He couldn't protect anybody around him.

Failure...

Dean could feel the emptiness begin to invade. It numbed him, squeezing his chest until it felt too small to confine what was inside him. He splayed his fingers against the front of his coat and pressed against the fabric into the flesh beneath, willing his hand to sink through his bones to clutch his heart directly.

There was no reason that he should feel so goddamned _sad_. There was no reason that he should feel so miserable because Castiel had turned his back on him.

After a few moments the hunter felt the numbness soothe away the ache in his chest and his breath flooded his lungs again.

Dean needed to leave. He needed to end this.

"Excuse me, Miss?" he said in a tight voice, his throat dry. "I've decided to get the Sig Sauer P22 X-Five Tactical. Give me a box of 9mm rounds to go with it."

The shopkeeper gave him a startled look, but didn't argue. Silently, she unlocked the gun from its case and placed it on the counter, putting a box of 9mm bullets next to it. She gave Dean a hard look before pushing them towards him.

"Usually you have to wait 5 business days for a license...but I'll give it to you free and clear for $400. I just need your word that you're not going to use it to hurt anyone." The unspoken words rang in Dean's ears. _I just need your word that you're not going to use it to hurt anyone..._but yourself.'

So she knew.

He was immediately grateful that in some twisted manner, this woman understood him. He was also grateful that she would not interfere with his decision.

"You've got my word," he replied. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of cash which he set on the counter top.

Then, without further formality, he picked up his newly purchased Sig and stowed it in his jacket. He hefted the box of bullets and turned on his heel, vanishing out the door without a backwards glance.

It was time to finish it.

He was goddamned _done_.

***** **

The room he rented was far nicer than any of the motel rooms he was used to, and it was decidedly lacking in a 70's motif. It had a bathroom with fluffy folded towels and little hand soaps that actually smelled like the lavender it said it should, coating his skin with a fresh, floral scent. The sheets on the bed smelled like his own from when he was a child - clean with the faintest trace of bleach.

There was also no indication that there ever was or ever would be magic fingers connected to the mattress.

Basically, it was type of hotel that Bobby or Sammy wouldn't think to search for him in. By simply changing his habits he was effectively hidden.

He was completely alone. It was perfect.

Dean pulled the newly purchased Sig Sauer from his coat and set it carefully on the nightstand. He placed the box of bullets next to it and shrugged out of his coat, tossing the heavy leather jacket on the bed.

A euphoric sensation traveled through him and momentarily bit back the numbness as it stirred him in a manner so different from the typical despair.

This would be over soon. Escape was a hair trigger away.

Dean sat down at the desk and unzipped his black duffel, pulling out the sawed- off Winchester Carbine shotgun and his Colt 1911. These were his two favorite guns and the last two that meant a damn to him.

The shotgun had been Dad's. It was an antique 1866 Yellow boy that he and Sammy had taken from his truck after his death. Dean had thought it was a piece of shit at first, but the 6-shot Winchester had proven its worth time and time again. It had gotten him and his brother out of enough scraps and had pumped enough rock salt into enough ghosts over the years, that if he were man of different sensibilities he might have named the gun, "Old Reliable" or some shit like that.

Dean didn't of course and he wasn't going to start being poetic now. Instead he disassembled the shotgun and gave it one last thorough cleaning. He took his time, letting his fingers trace the rigid contours and cool metal he had come to know and rely on.

It seemed pathetic that the thing he could see as truly reliable was a goddamned _gun_.

He cleaned the Colt 1911 next, giving his favored sidearm meticulous care. _This_ Colt should have been the weapon to ice the ghoul who had masqueraded as his youngest brother, Jake Abel.

Dean snorted as he reassembled the parts, snapping the slide back into place.

That was just another harsh reality and one of too many memories he wished he could forget. Mostly he wished he could forget the starkness of Sammy's words as he spoke to Jake and later to Jimmy Novak. His brother in those moments had channeled their father so completely it was scary.

No, it was fucking terrifying.

Dean set the gleaming handgun next to the shotgun, his green eyes scrutinizing the guns for anything he might have missed. When he was satisfied, he rose from his seat.

It was time.

There would be no note left. He wouldn't leave his words for Bobby or Sammy or Ca – _whoever the hell else_ to speculate over.

He would leave them with what they had left him: nothing.

Dean sat on the edge of the soft bed and quickly loaded the 9mm bullets into the Sig's ten round clip. He pushed the magazine into the butt of the gun with a click of finality. The noise was swallowed by the silence of the room, broken only by the sound of his shallow breathing.

He closed his eyes, thumbed the safety off, and placed the cool muzzle of the gun to his temple.

Then he took a deep breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

*******

Dean Winchester had seen Hell so he knew this wasn't it. While he had never seen Heaven he would hazard a guess that Heaven didn't look like an explosion of sable feathers and painful, pulsing light. He was certain that Heaven didn't involve awful, high-pitched screeching that made his eardrums want to bleed just to make the noise stop. He also didn't think that Heaven would feel like a great weight pressing against his chest, like hands splayed against his skin. He didn't think Heaven would make his flesh bubble and burn from an intense, scorching heat.

Dean blinked in the midst of the chaos and became aware that he was struggling to _breathe_. Odd, in Hell he never remembered breathing.

He inhaled a deep lungful of hot, blistering air and realized that there was something warm and sticky running down the side of his face. It ran into his eyes and dribbled past his ears, making them prickle unpleasantly. He tasted metal and salt in his mouth, as if a copper coil had been brushed in iodine and placed beneath his tongue.

Dean tried to move and couldn't. The weight on his chest pressed harder, pushing him down into the mattress until he thought he could feel the springs dig into his back. Meanwhile, the feathers – black and indistinct in his blurry gaze – continued to swirl in disorderly patterns, caught in a whirlwind they couldn't escape.

He became aware of a flapping sound like the wings of a bird as they snapped open and shut. Each stroke brought with it a resonating clap, the crash of thunder, followed by a powerful displacement of air.

Dean could feel the tingle of electricity in the air mingled with the searing heat. It danced along his teeth and lips. It crackled along the ridge of his nose and skipped along the fringe of his eyelashes. It ignited his nerves and he was able to _feel_ a throbbing, sharp pain boring into his right temple.

He opened his mouth to cry out and found he had no voice. He could only feel and only listen. So he felt and he listened, and as he did so he realized there was a voice in the high-pitched wail. It sounded distant and frantic and was really one of the loveliest voices he had ever heard. The voice repeated one thing over and over:

_Dean. Dean. Dean._

The voice was chanting in time with his heartbeat, which was a strong and steady thump in his chest. The unseen dark wings snapped open and shut, and there was a low, desperate whisper on the rush of air.

_Please._

Suddenly everything was painfully clear to Dean. His vision was flooded with vibrant colors and rich, deep shadows that painted a picture so vivid it hurt to gaze upon. What he saw before him was terrible in its beauty and humbling in its magnificence.

It was Castiel.

It was Castiel as Dean had come to know him, but his true form was barely contained by sinew and bone and skin. Light seeped out of every fissure in the vessel's body, radiating outward and surrounding the angel in a blinding corona. Huge wings colored the deepest black snapped open and closed. They filled the room with velvety shadow and caressed him with soft, downy feather.

Castiel's eyes bore no pupil and were bluer than any blue Dean had ever seen. He had no words to adequately describe the beauty that was right before him, and could only manage a wisp of sound when he opened his mouth to speak.

"Cas."

The angel leaned forward and pressed his lips to his, his tongue burning the inside of his mouth. Heat, like liquid fire, seeped down into the back of his throat. Kissing Castiel was like kissing the sun and Dean was consumed by it.

An inferno swept through him, agonizing and cathartic as it smoldered down his spine and branched through his bones. It filled him with an unbearable heat that purged everything within him. Sweat dripped from skin until he was drenched from head to toe in his own stink.

Still the fire burned, scouring away the loathing and the guilt until he was empty inside.

He screamed into the angel's mouth when Castiel pressed closer, their bodies flush, his skin so inflamed it felt like it was melting together, fused by hot glue. He swallowed Dean's scream and something passed between the seal of their lips and Dean's world was swallowed by light.

The burn intensified. Bright light leached from the point where their mouths were joined. Slowly it began to creep down Dean's throat and it branched through his veins and spread through his chest like liquid sunshine. It bled from his pores and replaced the inferno with a cool feeling of bliss that made every inch of him cry out for more. It filled every crevice inside of him. It poured from his fingers that had curled into Castiel's dark hair.

The light filled his belly, filled his lungs, and filled his heart.

He had never felt this feeling so intimately before. He had never felt this feeling so intensely. He had never really felt _love_, not like this.

This wasn't God's love. This was Castiel's love and it was for him alone. It spoke to him, somberly and truthfully.

_"I will always save you Dean. I will always love you even if I cannot always show it. I will always love you even if you will never love me back."_

And Dean wept, sobbing as he felt the truth within the dredges of his soul. The honesty of the angel's words made his toes curl and his skin shiver, and he knew that what was between he and Castiel would never about anything sexual.

This was far deeper than that. This was possibly one of the most meaningful connections he had ever had with another being.

Within the apex of his being he felt the brush of angel's grace, tugging him back to the waking world. Dean gave himself over to Castiel with a small broken sound of need and allowed himself to be saved.

He allowed himself to be loved and it devoured him entirely.

*******

Afterwards, he was dimly aware of being folded into a cocoon of soft, dark feathers as he curled into Cas' warm form, strong arms wrapped around his chest and waist.

"Black feathers, huh?" Dean mumbled and pressed closer to the angel's heat.

"You once told your mother that you thought angels should have black wings because white would get too dirty," replied Castiel in a whisper. "That is how you thought we should be and so I am."

"Neat," said Dean sleepily, before drifting off.

*******

Dean woke up alone and fully clothed, sprawled haphazardly across the bed. He sat up stiffly and cursed as a dull pain pulsated through his skull. He touched his temple and realized that his hair was matted and sticky with old blood. When he pulled his fingers away from his scalp they were smeared with crimson.

There was no wound.

The gun he had tried to kill himself with was on the ground near the foot of the bed and he slowly to retrieve it. He checked the magazine. One bullet was missing.

Dean glanced around and saw the empty shell on the pillow.

His hands began to shake violently and he could feel the prickle of tears behind his eyes, one or two escaping to trace a path down his cheeks.

A feather, dark as onyx, lay next to the empty shell.

***** **

Dean Winchester has had six guns in his life that meant something to him. The first five remind him of memories both good and bad.

The sixth reminds him of the night an angel told him he loved him.

The sixth reminds him that he loves that angel back.

(The End.)


	2. Author's Note

**Author's Note: **This story has been edited to change the part that focuses on the physical interaction between Dean and Castiel. After getting some feedback from it and thinking about it for awhile, I decided that the sex cheapened the overall story, which is primarily an emotional tone. I decided that to change the sex into something of a "soul-merge" that while a physical connection, hints at a deeper spiritual one.

Besides the story had dry sex in it, which, angel or no, would be mighty uncomfortably for poor Dean.

Just an FYI.

Thanks –

Lassroyale


End file.
